There Won't Be a Christmas

There Won't Be A Christmas


December fourth, 1976,
the telephone call came around noon.
My sister, Claire was on the line.
In a shaky, but controlled voice she said
"Den, Mom's passed away,
come over as soon as you can."

My wife drove me to my parent's house.
Claire answered the door and ushered us in.
Dad was standing in the middle of the living room
bawling his eyes out. He was a mess.
The first words he uttered were
"There won't be a Christmas this year."

We consoled him the best we could.
The first bottle of rum was starting
to take effect. "It should have been me
that died first, not your mother!"
He slammed his fists on the counter
then sat down and began sobbing.

My brother, John arrived the next day.
I had been able to control my emotions
until I saw him framed in the doorway.
I burst into tears. I could see the helpless
expression on his face. Men don't cry.
That was a family tradition.

The next few days were a blur of events
Our church minister came over.
Claire made the funeral arrangements.
Friends and neighbors dropped by
with food, flowers and sympathy.
Dad, John and I tried to talk coherently.

The funeral was small and simple.
Mom had previously selected the hymns.
I felt like a drained zombie
being led in, standing for a while,
then being led out, trying to keep it
together for the sake of my family.

The events of that day never left me.
I became a different person, I had no
grounding. Nobody to fall back on.
My mother had been the strong one. Now
each December I recall my dad's words,
"There won't be a Christmas this year."